Her Sacrifice
by Tangledupandsideways
Summary: "You have a talent, but it comes with sacrifice. Believe me." Gillian Foster doubts her choice to learn the science at times like these, especially as she knows she can never unlearn it. (Rating for language and minor violence)


_A/N: is Gillian_ bruised _in 1x13 Sacrifice? Look at her upper right arm. It appears to be a fading bruise. This is fiction, anyway, so even if it's not, let's pretend it is and get on with the story. Just a one shot._

Her Sacrifice

 _"You have a talent, but it comes with sacrifice. Believe me."_

"Alec, please," she begs, tears running down her face as he presses closer and closer to her, forcing her back a few steps.

She can see the feral look in his eyes, the way his pupils are dilated, but lacking any amount of emotion. He's not feeling anything and that's terrifying to her. He's wearing the colours of high all over his face and he feels nothing. She doesn't know what to do with that, how to make him stop his stony, somewhat detached pursuit. She just backs up farther and farther until her back slams into the living room wall and there's nowhere left to go.

"No, you listen to me, Gillian!" he screams, pushing her harder against the wall with his palm, squeezing tightly against her upper arm to hold her there.

"You're hurting me," she whimpers, trying to wriggle free.

He refuses to loosen his grip.

 _"You're_ hurting _me!"_ he screams in reply, stepping even closer until there is almost no space between them.

"Whatever I did, Alec, I'm sorry," she tells him, her free palm lifting to run comfort along his jaw.

"You're not! You're never sorry when it comes to _him,"_ he spews the name with so much disgust, spittle actually flies out of his mouth and sprays over her face.

He's closer now. She can feel the heat emanating from his body, smell the alcohol on his breath, see the red under his nose and in his bloodshot, unfocused eyes. She has a sudden bout of nausea at the image and struggles to keep from throwing up.

"So how did it feel, Gillian? To fuck him? He better than me? Bigger?"

"Alec," she exhales, her words slow and deliberate. "I would _never._ I married you. I love _you."_

She suddenly knows what this is, at least from a psychological point of view. It's projection, plain and simple. It's Alec making himself a victim so he doesn't feel the guilt of his own actions. It's not like she doesn't _know._ She knew the very first time, just from the way he'd said her name. She had asked him what was wrong and he had told her it was nothing with so much shame in his voice she knew she was right. It was him who had slept with someone else, it was him who had done the betraying, not her. Not loyal-to-a- _fucking_ -fault Gillian Foster.

"C'mon, _love,_ you can tell me. You tell me everything, don't you? You can tell me," he taunts, horrible imitation of the accent and all.

At the words, something snaps within her and she realises quickly that this is _not_ where she wants to be. She slaps him hard against the cheek with her free hand, so hard that it hurts her, too. She pushes against him until he takes a step back then moves from the space he had trapped her in, wrenching her arm free from his grasp.

"Don't you _dare,_ Alec. Don't you dare pretend I'm the one who's done wrong. We both know already it was you."

She's up the stairs before he can open his mouth to reply, throwing a suitcase onto the bed and rummaging through the bureau. She hurries her movements when she hears him on the stairs, stuffing the suitcase full and zipping it shut. She grabs it with one hand and a handful of hangers with her work clothes in the other. She pushes past where Alec is standing at the top of the stairs and makes her way back down.

"I'm sorry!" he shouts it so loud, she worries the whole neighbourhood will hear it.

She turns back, just so her voice will carry, and actually sees some semblance of shame on the man.

"I know," she says. "It's not enough."

What she doesn't say is ' _you disgust me_.'

The adrenaline wears off by the time she gets to her car, exhaustion overcoming her instead. She's lucky she remembered her purse on the way out. She has her cards, she can go to a hotel.

She hangs her hangers on the hook by the back window, tossing the suitcase onto the seat. Then, she just drives. She drives until she sees the lights of a familiar inn that looks more comforting and less cold than most commercial hotels.

She parks her car and gathers her things, not even bothering to check her reflection because she knows emotions like those she's feeling cannot be washed away. She wipes under her eyes, collecting tears she doesn't remember crying, and takes in a breath.

When she goes inside, everyone pretends they're not looking at her, but they are. She can tell. She heads to the reception desk and books a room for one week. The receptionist looks from the soft red rimming her eyes to the angry red marring her arm and offers a second on the house. Gillian shakes her head, shaking off not only the offer, but the pity of the woman.

She had known. The science had made sure she wouldn't miss it. So, she was to blame, too. She knew and did nothing about it, pretending she didn't see it. Ignorance is bliss, and she wanted to be happy. All she had ever wanted was to be happy.

If she had known that learning Cal Lightman's science would only lead her to see people hurting her over and over, maybe she would've chosen not to make the sacrifice. Maybe things would be better if she could live blindly and in oblivion. Maybe it all wouldn't hurt so much.


End file.
